


mistakes we knew we were making

by leiascully



Category: House M.D.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-26
Updated: 2007-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:11:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leiascully/pseuds/leiascully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House and Cuddy get it on at Wilson's weddings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: pre-series  
> A/N: Smutty smut with a gratuitous lack of quotation marks again! Title's from the Straylight Run song, which I have but haven't really listened to.   
> Disclaimer: _House M.D._ and all related characters are the property of Shore Z, Bad Hat Harry, and Fox. No profit is made from this work and no infringement is intended.

Only Wilson would get married on a day like today, he murmured as they stood off to one side.

It's a beautiful day, she whispered, trying to ignore the brush of his lips against her ear and managing at least not to shiver. What are you complaining about?

Last good golfing of the season, he said, before all the greens are covered with those oh so picturesque drifts of dead leaves in shades ranging from blood to puke. I can't believe all those idiot Southerners drag themselves up here to go leaf peeping. Sounds perverted.

No one has ever come to Jersey to go leaf peeping, she said, stepping on his toe, her thigh brushing his through the layers of dress and tux. And Wilson's terrible at golf.

That's the best part. His breath was hot behind her ear.

Shut up, she hissed under her breath, this is the best part.

'Til death do you part? asked the priest, and Wilson, with his eyes shining, looked at his new bride and said, I do.

House startled her by actually staying quiet through the end of the ceremony, until the bride and groom had gone down the aisle and the guests had begun to file out as well. They moved along with the crowd, but there were too many people: Wilson was popular. House grabbed her hand and pulled her into the shadow of a confessional, and then inside the booth proper.

House! she said, and he put a hand over her mouth.

You want people to find us in here? They'll think we're doing wicked things, and in church, too. I'm surprised at you.

She bit his hand but he kept his palm pressed over her mouth. You know he's going to step on a wine glass at the reception and pretend it's not on purpose, he said quietly but conversationally, as if nothing were happening. Catholics and Jews are a bizarre classic combination. Is it the guilt that makes the sex good? Is that why they keep getting married? Did you ever ask your parents?

He had sat down on the little bench as he talked, and pulled her into his lap, and he was stroking her bare back with his free hand. The dress laced from hips to shoulders and was really too chilly for the weather, but that's what the future Mrs. Wilson had wanted for her bridesmaids, and as the maid of honor, Cuddy hadn't been able to refuse. Now it seemed like a better idea, with House's fingers wandering up and down her back, and weddings always made her think of her own poor prospects, and how long it had been since she'd had a decent boyfriend. She thought of guilt, and of good sex, and she had been fighting a hormone rush anyway, thanks to the dubious wonders of the female body. House smelled good, and he was wearing a tux, and she wanted him, church or not. She shouldn't. The confessional wasn't the best venue, and though she couldn't imagine the church being double booked for weddings and confessions, someone was bound to come looking for them. It was dark and all she could see was the gleam in his eyes and the glow of his white shirt.

Stop, she said, we can't do this here, but it came out as a series of mumbles, and as her tongue moved against his palm, his eyes narrowed, the glitter in them sharpening, and she felt his erection against her ass. She licked his hand again, experimentally, dragging her tongue across the faint salt of the creases, and he shifted under and against her. She liked it. She liked the power she had over him in this moment, and she moved so that she was straddling his lap, hitching up the long skirt of her dress. Her little bag slid down her arm onto the bench of the confessional and made a thunking noise.

Shhh, House said. Are you going to be quiet? He took his hand away from her mouth with seeming reluctance, but his other arm was firm around her waist.

We'll see if you can be quiet, she said. While I'm fucking your brains out.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, he murmured. I thought you cared that this was a church.

I'm Jewish, she said. I stopped caring. Shut up and kiss me or let me go.

You know I'm bad with multiple choice, he said, so she kissed him instead, crushing her mouth to his as she undid enough shirt buttons to give her access to his chest. She spread her fingers out over his ribs, under cotton, over cotton, breathing in his aftershave and tasting mint in his mouth. Considerate House, popping breath mints at Wilson's wedding. She felt his hips rise against hers and let her hands slide down to the buttons of his pants, shoving his cummerbund up roughly.

Condom? he said breathlessly against the side of her mouth.

Bag, she said, and he fished through it, coming up with lipstick, aspirin, stockings, and finally the condom.

You plan ahead, he said, and she moved to one side so that he could shove down his pants and boxerbriefs as she ripped open the foil and rolled the condom down over him.

Oh, he said as she sank down over him, and God, she said, and then he said, you weren't wearing any panties?

I plan ahead, she said, and they ruin the line of the dress.

No bra either, he said, cupping her breasts through the silk.

Don't you have a best man speech to be giving? she asked as she started to rock, his hips jerking against hers.

Don't you have maid of honor appearances to make? he countered. Guess we'd better make this fast.

As if it was ever going to be anything else, she retorted, and slipped a hand between her legs just as he did. He pushed her fingers away impatiently and kissed her.

You do your bit. I'll do mine, he said. His hands were good, so good, and already it felt as if there were flames licking up the insides of her thighs. The heat under all the fabric was incredible and he hadn't stopped kissing her, though her mouth was occasionally out of reach as she moved over him, and oh, she was glad she'd bought the mutual pleasure condoms despite their stupid packaging, because he was putting the studs in all the right places as his fingers moved between her legs and his other hand was inside her dress somehow. At least the kissing kept anyone from hearing her moans: House swallowed them all, his tongue sliding against hers until she wished she didn't need to breathe. She could hear the sounds of cars faintly from outside the church. She and House were riding together (she giggled into his mouth and then gasped as his fingers moved), but they'd need to leave soon to get to the reception. He was gasping too, and humming into her mouth, and she could feel his thighs tensing.

Not without me, she said into his mouth, and slipped her hand down to join his, and this time he made no protest, and the combination of their fingers on her was oh, god, worth any amount of guilt and any hours of frustrated foreplay and a number of hours of working with him, because with the smell of sin and old wood all around, she was rising on a blaze of heat and color that outdid summer and autumn and all the years of penance she'd pay. She shuddered, coming down a little, her knees gripping his hips too hard, but he didn't complain, just thrust up against her and all the colors were changing to a white heat that was almost painful. He bit her lip, accidentally, she thought, and then he was burying his hot face in her shoulder and breathing hard.

Tissue in the bag, she said after a long moment, moving off his lap, smoothing her skirt down. He reached for the pack of tissues, wrapped the condom in one and cleaned himself off with another before stuffing both in his pants pocket as he dragged the trousers back on.

What, he said, I have to get them cleaned anyway. Are we going to be late?

Terribly. She held out her hand for her bag and he looked her over critically in the dim of the booth and passed a hand over her skirt, flattening a few wrinkles.

Are we going to leave early? he asked, pressing up against her as he buttoned his shirt and tucked it in. She fixed his skew tie and resituated his cummerbund before finding the door.

I would say there's a good chance of that, she said, but first you've got a toast to give.

I hate weddings, he said, his hand on her lower back as he escorted her out of the church.


	2. Chapter 2

She got lost in the hedge maze and there he was, suddenly, scruff and charm in a linen suit against the heat.

Only Wilson would get married in a place like this, he said, and why aren't you with the wedding party?

You're not the only one who likes puzzles, she said, looking up through her lashes at him. What are you doing here?

Looking for the minotaur, he said, and there was a wild light in his eyes that made her feel hot and skittish. She had backed up without knowing it; the twigs and leaves prickled on her bare shoulders. It was late spring outside and high summer between her legs, the heat spreading up her body in a flush under the creamy linen.

In Greek mythology you either have to kill the thing you seek or sleep with it, she said, trying to be offhand but thinking of fertility rituals and grass stains and everything so green and lively and fecund in the garden, the lushness of sex.

Take a guess, he said and stepped forward to crush her mouth with hers, and she thought, oh, we shouldn't, but her body disagreed and her hands were already under his jacket, pushing aside the cloth so that she could reach his skin, damp with desire the way hers was. They had done this last time, half by accident, and they shouldn't be doing it again, but it wasn't every day Wilson got married, and there had already been champagne, and now there was the warm lusty joy of the day and it was impossible not to give in when she wanted him so badly, this man out of nowhere pretending he hadn't followed her for this, for these kisses, for whatever followed.

His mouth was hot like the last lazy days of August and she pushed against him, wanting more, wanting the pressure and the contact and the extra heat that would be too much. He was always too much but she so rarely got to take advantage of it. He pushed back, crushing her into the hedge so that twigs jabbed her scalp and she wouldn't have minded except that it had taken an hour and a half to tease her curls into this arrangement and she couldn't limp back to the reception with her hair falling around her face and stains on the back of her dress.

House, she said.

Don't say stop, he said urgently, dropping little kisses over her face. He'd never say he needed her, but she thought he was close to it, talking around it in his House way. Don't say stop.

Give me your jacket, she said for the flash of surprise in his eyes. He slipped it off, leaning away from her (come back, she thought) and she turned it inside out and put it on, the linen faintly rough against her skin and the silk lining of the jacket against the hedge. She turned and pillowed her forehead on her arms, leaning into the leaves. So fuck me, she said over her shoulder, all audacity and desire, and he pressed against her, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his trousers.

She shivered as he unzipped her dress halfway and pushed his hand inside dress and bra to cup her breast, his fingers working over her nipple. The other hand rucked up her skirt, and it was going to wrinkle, but it would have wrinkled anyway. He hooked three fingers into her panties and rolled them down her thighs, and she worked them down her legs until she could step out of them. They were cream colored to match the dress and she hoped she remembered them, but the heat building just under her skin was making the edges of her thoughts blur like a mirage, and all she could think of was wanting him. Her breath was coming faster and faster, so that she was almost panting as he rolled her nipple between his fingertips.

Behind her he paused and she heard the damp foil sound of a condom packet ripping. Clever House: he'd thought ahead. Maybe he'd expected this. She wanted to turn, to take him in her hands or in her mouth, but he was already moving foward, testing her with three fingers, pushing into her, and she stifled her gasp in the hedge.

Ooooh, she said, long and shaky, and it was a strange sensation to have her arms covered during sex, the linen rubbing against her forearms and then the twigs and leaves brushing her face where it wasn't pressed into the crook of her elbow. House slid the hand that wasn't on her breasts between her legs, his wrist against the front of her thigh, and if anyone came into the maze they would find them and that was driving her crazy, and so was the rub of his watch at the crease of her thigh. The warm air on her back and bare thighs wasn't as hot as the air trapped between her and the hedge and the contrast in temperatures made all the little hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and all the goosebumps only increased the sensation. She was wearing too many layers and so was he, but the fronts of his thighs slid against the backs of hers and he was hitting all the right spots. She could feel the ridges on the condom and the ridges on his cock inside her and all the little ridges that made up the whorls of his fingertips on her nipples and clit, and the overload of sensation was almost dizzying. In the middle distance the band struck up another tune and she remembered they had to get back to the party, the thought dissolving into her pleasure almost immediately but the urgency remaining.

Faster, she said, and he jumped, rocking hard into her. His big hand cradled her breast and his cock was hot and hard inside her and it really did feel like summer, the suspension of heat where every moment seemed to last forever in a perfect stasis and then she was tumbling, not sure what was hot and what was cold. He panted into her shoulder putting his teeth into the back of her neck and god, she was coming again, or still coming, the ripples still pulsing through her, and then he was breathing hard and sagging against her, pushing them both further into the hedge, and they were going to come out the other side like Alice in Wonderland with Cheshire smiles.

We need to get back, she said after a long moment, feeling the dampness of her sweat on the inside sleeves of his jacket. He leaned away and bent to pull up his pants before zipping them and her dress. The condom and packet he kicked under a bush, and she would have shouted at him, but she was still boneless and he had nowhere else to put them. She rearranged her breasts inside her bra, wincing as the lace scraped over sensitive flesh, and turned his jacket right side out.

No evidence, he said. I admire a woman who knows her subterfuge.

I know you do, she said. Let's go.

They went back to the dance floor at the reception, slipped on pretending to be a couple. The song was something dreamy and summery, and Cuddy was surprised at the certainty with which House's arms went around her, the strength in his forearm as it circled her waist and pulled her close. She rested her flushed face on his shoulder. Sunburn, she would say, not arousal. Afterglow, she knew, endorphins creating a semblance of romance, but she didn't pull away from House.

Why do we do this? It was a rhetorical murmur as she watched Wilson dance with his new wife, who was tall enough that Wilson barely had to bend to rest his lips against her bare shoulder.

Weddings, he said, are society's sanction for two people to fuck each other's brains out. Everyone here is thinking about sex. I guarantee it. Plus, spring, he added as an afterthought, when a young man's fancy lightly turns to his biological imperative to get between a willing pair of thighs.

We're not so young, she said.

You're not always so willing, he said.

Spring, she said, putting her fingers down the neck of his jacket and letting her fingernails drag lightly over his skin, so that she felt his cock twitch against her hip. How soon can we leave?

Together? he said.

Biological imperative, she said, and I'll make you dinner.

I love weddings, he said. Let's go.


	3. Chapter 3

Janitorial closet on the third floor, and she didn't know how he'd gotten the keys, but she wasn't surprised.

Psych ward, she said. Appropriate.

Be nice, he said, pushing her skirt up her thighs. Goddamn floor length formal wear. Why can't you wear that tennis dress to these things?

Same reason you can't wear t-shirts, she said, fumbling with his tuxedo pants. Heightens the mmmmanticipation.

He had her breasts out of the low neckline and his fingers fumbled with her panties as his mouth moved over her breasts. She was going to have to wear a shawl the rest of the night to cover marks of lips and teeth and stubble but god his mouth. Always getting him in trouble and this would get both of them in trouble but it was so good. The edges of his teeth or maybe it was his sharp tongue grazed her nipple and she yelped and jumped, pushing her hips against his, and in her high heels, she was just tall enough for the angles to line up. She had his pants down and the hot length of him in her hands and it was trouble, he was trouble, and she guided him anyway, hissing at the pressure. They had done this the first time, almost by accident, and then the second time, because there was nothing to lose, and by now it felt like tradition or close enough, and she'd had a martini for each of them and followed him up here.

Yes, she said, more, and this was bad for his leg and for her dress, but she braced one high heeled foot against a bucket and pushed up against the wall, half sitting on some little countertop that dug into the backs of her thighs.

Mmm, he said against her breast, still pulling too hard, but she didn't care. There were few enough kisses in her life that she was glad of the ones she had. He shifted in and out of her, his rhythm as ragged as his breathing, but he had a hand up her skirt as well and his fingers kept time.

Fuck, House, she said, and her fingers dug into his back.

Yessssss, he said. All around them was the smell of chemical cleaners, the antiseptic clean smells of her hospital, and she could hear the rustle of their formal clothes and feel the scrape of his stubble across her breasts, and the tulle under her skirt rough on the back of her thighs, and it was sensory overload with him moving in her, and his fingers between her legs, and anyone could catch them at any time, some escaped psych patient, and the thought of being caught fucking her employee in a janitor's closet drove her over the edge. The darkness turned into pinpricks of light and then a nova and she knew he would have tiny rings of crescent bruises from the pressure of her fingernails, but he was still heaving into her and she goaded him on, the free heel pressed into his calf.

Come on, come on, she said. Fuck me, House, do it. She liked the rough words coming from her polished mouth, and both of them decked out pretty, and now the closet smelled like sex and cleaner and she was close, so close to a second thousand points of light orgasm, but he gasped and nipped her breast and stopped thrusting, just resting in her, panting into the hollow of her collarbone. She put out a blind hand in the dark and found spray bottles, a broom handle, and then the roll of paper towels she'd gotten a quick glimpse of for the few seconds the door had been open.

Here, she said. Clean us up. He ripped a few paper towels off and pulled out of her, wiping her down. The towels were rough against her sensitive flesh and she wriggled on the countertop.

Panties, he said, offering them to her and god only knew where he had kept them. She heard the paper towels crinkling as he cleaned himself off, and then the sound of dress pants being pulled up and zipped. She dragged her panties on and kicked his cane in the dark, kneeling to pick it up.

Think we look decent?

No. But we're not the center of attention.

True, she said, at least today.

She stopped into the bathroom to smooth her hair and dress anyway, and he waited impatiently outside. He was a caricature of a best man and she was a bridesmaid without much honor, but at least Wilson was happy, and Julie was happy and maybe this time things would work. That was why they'd had the reception in the big meeting room at the hospital: a marriage of minds, an acceptance of the truth of the job, a celebration that Wilson's friends could actually attend, at least for a few minutes. She hoped it would work.

Do you think it will stick this time?

Hard to say, he said. Julie seems reasonable. On the other hand, I almost hope it doesn't. I like fucking you.

We're sick, she said. We shouldn't, if it happens again.

Everyone fucks at weddings, he said. And after weddings. Coming home with me, Cuddy?

I might, she said, knowing she would, but they left it at that.


	4. Chapter 4

Cuddy panted, a flush hot on her cheeks and chest, aftershocks of pleasure making her arms come out in goosebumps. The room was thick with the scent of lilies. She swiped a hand through her tangled hair and it came away covered in something sticky and white. She licked her fingers. Frosting.

Oh, God, she said to House, who was buttoning up his pants. We crushed the cake. Her back was coated in it, her dress ruined.

House waved one hand, the other wrestling with his cummerbund. It's not like it's his _first_ marriage.

True. She frowned. Still.

If you're really worried, we can get them another cake.

House! The wedding's in two hours! I have frosting in my hair and no dress!

He shrugged, a rakish grin on his face. I like you better that way. Go jump in the shower. I'll call the cake place and then join you. You can help me put this damn thing back on when we're done.

Since when do churches have showers?

My place. You know where the key is.

_My_ place. I know where my makeup is.

Suit yourself, he said, pulling out his cell. Hey, is this the bakery? Yeah. Party of Wilson needs another wedding cake. Your guys ruined it somehow.

He winked at her as she sailed out the door and she blushed again. It was a hot day. Wilson always seemed to get married in the summer, and she knew she'd be slippery with sweat after standing out in the sun. She was pretty slippery now, though the room she and House had been in (and they always seemed to have sex at Wilson's weddings) was air-conditioned to the point of being arctic. She and House had generated a lot of heat. Her skin was slick with the effort of sex and her body hummed. Her lips curved up in a smile as she slid her sunglasses on. The sun blazed down through the windshield and she rolled down all the windows, thinking of cool water, of House's bare skin sliding up against hers, of her back against the tile, his cock buried in her as they panted. Quick and clean in the shower. She grinned and clicked the radio on, driving too fast like a teenager just for the joy of it.

She'd find another dress, something color-coordinated, maybe a little strappy. Something inspiring. Something that would ensure she couldn't walk properly in the morning, and that she'd be making breakfast for two.

It was going to be a lovely wedding.


End file.
